


teaspoon

by ghosty



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Established Relationship, F/M, Sadstuck, dave is southern
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 16:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosty/pseuds/ghosty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she was the teaspoon. he was the ladle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	teaspoon

**Author's Note:**

> ~*pls heed the "Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings"; i'm using it to avoid spoiler tags and maintain ambiguity!!!*~
> 
> i wrote this on a whim, a very sad whim though, and posted it on tumblr with the intention of just "oh here's a little thing i jotted down because of the mood i was in". but people said extremely kind and meaningful things, so i supposed i would share it here. i hope you enjoy!
> 
> (p.s. this might become a two-shot when i finish it one day.)

Dinner and a movie was the evening's title, and the stage was set to perfection. The candles were lit, the table set delicately, the drumming chimes of rain falling in leaflet drops on the rooftop and against the windows, all cleansing and dark. So maybe he hoped the reservation would have gone through, and he wouldn't be going down her hallway to retrieve her, to show her the display he'd created in lieu of the fine Mongolian restaurant. Who the fuck cared about Mongolian, anyway? Nobody, that's who.

But the thunder crumbled in the air, and Dave took a mild, steadying breath, only slightly doubting his fine dining skills as he knocked lightly on her door.

"Supper time, your majesty," he called through the wood, straightening the cuffs of his collared shirt, remanicuring his black tie, aligning his suspenders more securely on the valley of his shoulders. And maybe he looked like an FBI agent or some old mobster, come to escort a dame far above him -- and maybe, he was -- but the knob crinkled and turned and there she was looking like a black swan out of the abyss of god's eye, some ancient creature of purgatory in a deep blue one piece.

He'd tell you he didn't stop breathing and his brain didn't shit itself of all human comprehension, but. Actually, he wouldn't tell you. But he'd mull over the sensation over and over again with headphones on and his fingers drumming urgently against the arm of the computer chair, trying to set it to memory along with her lovely neck and African violet eyes and muted smile.

"My knight in shining armor, come to rescue me at last?" She replied mischeviously, but she gave him her hand and he made himself be slow as he leaned in to kiss it.

"Confused as usual," he whispered against her knuckles, his eyes following the spiderwebs of her skin. Just quietly enough so it would be lost in her hands forever. "You're doing the saving."

"What did you say?" Rose quipped, but he only stood, rising above her, patented smirk in reply.

"Nothing you'd be interested in, m'lady," Dave drawled in retort. But she was determined to hold the higher ground, so she merely looked disinterested, and shrugged her head deftly into the echo of the hallway, as if there was a fly in her hair.

Dave secretly smiled off to the side, and led her to the dining room. She was so cute, pretending there was no bee in her bonnet.

\---

Rose pushed her food around on the plate for half an hour. Dave earnestly dug into his mashed potatoes and drank his wine, because he hadn't eaten all day, and after he made it through the steamed broccoli he figured making conversation was a grand idea.

"D'you know what we should watch?" He piped up, dabbing mannerly at his mouth with the napkin. The gauzy candlelight curled lovely shapes on her flushed cheeks, pale skin, and reflected in her luminous eyes like an old Arabic tomb.

Lamblike, she sucked on the prongs of her fork, thinking over the answer.

"Antichrist is on Netflix." She replied after a moment, smiling slyly. He immediately responded with a derisive noise, but goddamn, he had done this much for her, he might as well continue. The little voice in the back whistled at him, laughed at how he'd get down on hand and knee for her.

God, he would. He really would. He was rotten to the core for Rose Lalonde.

"And you're telling me that this psychoanalyzation bullshit says that I need a decade of therapy. You wanna watch a fucking two hour film for ghosts and horror movie basment dwellers about misogyny? Shit, let me get my ouija board and we'll give good ol' Poppa Freud a phone call."

"Oh, hush. It's a very beautiful film. Lest I remind you of the travesty that was the Tim and Eric movie...?"

"Goddamnit, Lalonde."

And she drops her fork while she's laughing, and it lands in the mashed potatoes that look like a child-played-in snowdraft, uneaten, only marred by her utensil's movements. Her broccoli is slightly inside of it, her pumpernickel is only faintly hollowed out, and the butter cup is untouched. And sorrow and stones rise into Dave's stomach.

"M'sorry," he mumbled, looking far away into the paint of the wall. "I know you're not used to eating southern food, and I'm not any sort of Emril, but I tried."

It pained him to turn back and see her expression, expecting embarassment and guilt, but instead her eyes were wide and she looked like she'd seen a ghost. Immediately, she trilled, "No! No, no, Dave, you're mistaken! The food is wonderful, please do not misunderstand me -- I just have little appetite, and I ate so much earlier. I'm just not hungry. I'm sorry."

Angels lifted away the weight and Dave sunk back into his chair, a sloppy half-smile smothering his mouth.

"Well shit," he said. "That's good."

And he finished his plate, and they talked, and laughed, and she didn't eat.

\---

The lightning put out the power, unsurprisingly. It became hot and sticky, the inside of a beehive, so they peeled off the expensive feathers and sat comfortably in their undergarments. Dave's briefs, black, clung with sweat, and Rose's hands profusely rubbed her thighs, the lace of her panties itching with the heat, and readjusted her bra straps which dug against her thin shoulders.

"Cheaper than taking you to a sauna," Dave chimed pleasantly. He laid back on the couch, stretching, sighing like a cat on a humid front porch.

"At least the lingerie has achieved its fair share of attention," Rose hummed back. Her vinelike arms crawled around her picket fence ribcage as she fell backwards with him, into his arms, so warm and soft and grabby. Dave wrapped all around her like summer, and she sunk into his heated hold, shutting her eyes and smiling to nobody.

"You're always so comfortable to me," she mumbled, somewhat unintentionally. His face felt kind of hot, but after all, the A/C was out.

The rain pattered on. Dave's lips mussed the top of her head, his ankles trapped hers, and his hands ran protectively up her tummy. And that was when Rose slipped.

The dinner she didn't eat, over on the table, said to her, ' _You're going to let him touch you like that?_ ' and she flinched and her hand dove for his. The spell was broken. Dave asked, "S'wrong?" and Rose quieted, never having had to cover it up, and she said, "It tickles."

Dave almost grinned and continued, but the little voice in the back bit back, ' _She's never been ticklish before, kid_.' And all of a sudden Dave's tick-tocking added, ' _Something is amiss_.'

"Are you sick or something?" He asked this very genuinely. Would it have been surprising that she was covering up illness perfectly as not to disappoint him on their date? It had been a long time since he had the time off or the money to do anything nice for her, and it ate at him alive that he could just take care of her and help her and be the person he wanted to be for her, but...

His thoughts left him when he realized that Rose had locked up in his hold, and her eyes were wide and blank, staring at the ceiling like the roof was gonna cave in any second.

"Rose?"

"Yes."

The word was so soft so feathered and fog and faraway and quiet that it sunk into the cushions and he had to ask again.

"Yes," Rose repeated, more clearly, though just as crystal ball misty as the first one. "Yes, I am sick."

Instinct told him to rub his hands on her skin like he wanted to scrub her unhappiness off, so he did. His palms washed at her willowy skin, and the more he carressed and pressed, the stiller and more small she became, like she was shriveling away into the void in his arms. Waiting, waiting, until she'd speak again.

"You're so little," he murmured, though, while she collected her thoughts. He wondered if she had cancer. That would explain a lot. Regardless, he appreciated the absurdity of the situation -- a nice date and movie turned into an at-home uneaten meal and being couch potatoes, talking about mortality. Well. He guessed that was him and Rose. That was all.

He wouldn't complain, because he was spooning with her, after all, something she normally did not let him do.

"You're the teaspoon," Dave concluded with a small smile.

Then Rose started crying. He must've been the ladle. The big spoon and the little spoon.

The too-little spoon.

\---

Six weeks later, he stared out the window, because it was raining, and he'd finally accumulated enough paychecks to take her out again. She'd insisted he didn't, and as usual, the gods listened to her, and fuck June, because it still poured rain like somebody had pulled the plug.

\---

Rose laid down in bed, eighteen miles away in her apartment, parchment thin and breathing shallow as the ocean. She closed her eyes, frowning softly, thinking of Mongolian food and all the wonderful time she would be missing out on. The picture of Dave Strider on her nightstand smirks back roguishly at her, and she shakily sighs, shutting her eyes.

Rose's heart counts in centimeters instead of BPM, down instead of up. She prays quietly to nothing.

Rose's heart reaches zero.


End file.
